


Finan's Hell at Heahburh

by RearAdmiral



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RearAdmiral/pseuds/RearAdmiral
Summary: A story spun out of Book 11 - The War of The Wolf - Uhtred, Finan and Sigtrygrr have marched North and climbed higher and higher to reach Skoll’s fortress, Heahburh, where they try and attack. The attack fails, and Uhtred watches in horror as Finan is grabbed from the pallisade and dragged into the Wolf’s lair.Several days have passed and Finan is still somewhere in that fortress, Uhtred is going crazy and Skoll is experimenting with the wolf warriors’ battle ointment to make Finan’s captivity go with a bang.
Relationships: Finan & Sihtric (The Last Kingdom), Finan & Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan/Sihtric/Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Uhtred of Bebbanburg & Original Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. The Last Kingdom - Finan's Capture at Heahburh

The morning sun was dispersing the dawn fog as Uhtred watched from the grassy ridge, sat on his arse, dizzy, impotent, his head bleeding and ringing, blackness in one eye.The sight in his other eye was enough to show him that this was an ill-conceived plan and that this battle was lost.

Once he knew Uhtred was safe, Finan had re-joined the fray, leading his men to the same wall under which Uhtred had received the blow to his shield and helmet, but this time accompanied by archers under the capable Saxon, Cenwulf. The archers were able to push back the Norsemen on the ramparts enough to allow Finan and two of his warriors to place ladders up against the wall, and Uhtred watched with mounting horror as Finan started to climb.

‘Help me up’ Uhtred shouted, to no-one in particular but one of Bishop Iremias’ girls who stood next to him, leaned down and offered her arm, and proved surprisingly strong in helping Uhtred to his feet. He wobbled, and tried to blink away the darkness that persisted in his left eye, but then steadied himself to watch as Finan continued to climb, in tandem with one of his men on the other ladder, all the whilst the Norsemen on the ramparts dodged the arrows and tried to rain rocks down onto their heads from above. Uhtred could see Cenwulf suddenly turn and shout something to his men and realised the arrows were almost gone, most seemingly stuck in the shields of the Norse on the wall, and Cenwulf was shouting for a re-supply, from any bowman who had any arrows left, and then Finan reached the top of the rampart just at the same time as the flow of arrows dried up.

He had his short sword drawn, all the better to sweep in narrow arcs at the enemies’ heads and arms as they leaned over the timber walls, and one hand free to climb, and it was no mean feat to climb a ladder and fight one handed and at the same time create a space at the top to dismount and land on the fighting platform.

But Finan was quick and lithe and was leaning and swinging across both sides of the ladder to swipe at his foe, taking a rung up with each swing, and at first he seemed to be succeeding. But as Finan neared the top of the ramparts, the Norsemen had at the same time realised that the arrows had stopped flying and they could resume their defence. Uhtred watched through one teared up eye as four of the enemy leaned over the top of the palisade and four pairs of hands grabbed at Finan’s tunic and grappled at his mail and heaved.

Uhtred still watched as seemingly in slow motion, Finan’s feet left the rungs of the ladder, his sword sheared across an enemy arm, and then he was gone, hauled over the top of the wall and pulled down the other side.

Uhtred’s chest was heaving, his breathing ragged, and he clutched unknowingly at the girl’s arm who stood beside him, and his eyes scanned the top of Skoll’s fort, desperately searching for any sign of Finan re-emerging, screaming in his country’s language and swinging away.  
That had been two days ago, and Uhtred was frantic.

In those intervening days Sigtrygrr had swept the perimeter of the mountain fort and collected all his men, gathering them again on the grassy ridge, he had dispatched forage parties and set scouts, had organised care for the wounded, and had, as much as possible, established a working army camp on the high ground alongside Heahburh.They had lost as much as a third of their men in that initial doomed assault, whilst Skoll had lost a mere handful.

Uhtred meanwhile had fretted and chafed, he had barely slept and his men could not persuade him to eat, he had stood, endlessly staring at the fort’s high walls, or up at the sky for any omen from the Gods, his mind whirring through the possibilities, the opportunities to reach Finan. And when the darkness fell on each successive day his mind turned to the dangers, the agonies of what had become of the Irishman, what he was going through, if he was still alive, and on and on it went and round and round.

And then on the second day the Gods smiled and the opportunity to reach Finan presented itself. Berg Skallagrimmrson had two brothers serving under Skoll, Egil and Thorolf, both of whom undoubtedly had assumed their youngest brother long dead. But Berg it seemed had managed to make contact when assaulting the North wall, having been carrying his makeshift eagle banner, fashioned out of Father Cuthbert’s black cassocks, as he stood at the base of a ladder. His brother Egil had recognised the family banner, and had shouted down to Berg that he would reach him in the days ahead. For Egil could get messages in and out.

The fort was built into the rock and supported on its front edge by huge timber struts that allowed it to seemingly hang out over the side of the cliff edge. Those timbers had been replaced and well-maintained by Skoll but it was under these dark dripping trunks that a gap lay hidden. And like any rat in any city, the smallest and least significant member of Skoll’s fortress community, a servant girl, not more than ten years old, had found this gap and she made use of it every day. She would wait each night until the kitchen slaves had settled down for the night before creeping out of the kitchen, stepping over the sleeping bodies, and making her way across the courtyard and under the timbers, crawling several feet on her front until she reached a timber post slightly skinnier than its neighbours. Twisting onto her side she would pull herself through the gap and down the steep hillside to her village below, which was no more than a few hovels perched on the grassy slopes, but it was where her father lived. And each morning before dawn she would reverse the process to return to the kitchens before her masters and mistresses stirred.

And Egil had spied this small child on the sleepless night before the day of Uhtred’s doomed attack, and now he had himself a secret entrance and exit from his Lord’s fortress to send out his messenger rat.

This was the opportunity Berg had brought Uhtred on the morning of the second day that Finan was missing - he had received a message from the slave girl as she made her way back to her work in the kitchens, whispering to him in the darkness just before the dawn, telling him of Egil and Thorolf’s numbers in the fort, and of their total frustration with their Lord Skoll. As with any leader of the Norsemen, Skoll was judged for his ability to bring his men silver and land and all Skoll had brought to his men so far was the defeat of Eoferwic and the defence of a fortress on barren rocks miles from any fertile ground. Between them the two Norse brothers commanded over two hundred men and they were ready to try a new leader.

And so Uhtred, weary with worry, started to plot the rescue of Finan and the taking of Heahbugh.


	2. Finan is Acquainted with the Hall at Heahburh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finan is now in the possession of the Wolf, Skoll, and spends his first day in the fortress.

Skoll knew he had Uhtred’s second-in-command in his possession, but he had no knowledge of how long the Irishman would last in his hall as entertainment for his men. He anticipated a few hours of fun before he tossed the body of the lifeless Irishman back over the ramparts, he did not know how good the warrior was that his men had plucked off the pallisade. 

Uhtred had spent hours every day sparring with Finan and nine times out of ten Finan would have killed him. He was supernaturally quick, and immensely strong, and combined that speed and power with high levels of skill and a clever mind. He never lost his temper or his courage and he had, thus far, never been beaten.

On that first day of Finan’s capture, Skoll set out the rules that the Irishman would follow in order to earn his keep for however long he survived.

He was brought to Skoll’s great hall, a huge wooden structure with vaulted ceiling and ladders up to raised second storey platforms that ran the two lengths of the building. The hall was built to withstand the mountain winds and the raids from the Scots only a few miles over the border. The dais, where the Lords sat, ran along the back of the hall, with a huge hearth set in front and below the raised platform, with long tables and benches running away from the central hearth in rows and rows to accommodate a large horde of men. Iron wall sconces ran in short intervals along every wall so that the rushlights lit up every corner, and the flickering light reached upwards towards the high ceiling of arched timbers and the hearth’s smoke hole above. 

Some of the tables and benches had been moved aside to create a space in the middle of the hall, and marking the very centre of the building was an iron pole, sunk deep into the hard floor, and welded to it was a short length of chain. 

Finan was shackled by one ankle to this iron pole and chain, stripped to the waist, and made to sit. His boots, arm rings, mail and two swords had been removed, but he was warm and dry and calm. He sat close to the iron stake, legs drawn up, arms resting on his knees, breathing steadily, eyes slowly taking in his surroundings, conserving every ounce of energy. He hadn’t been roughed up at the ramparts, his captors recognised the value of their prize once they’d got him over the wall and had taken him immediately to Skoll, so he had been marched into the hall unhurt and un-tested, which suited him just fine.

That first day of his capture was an uneventful one, filled with waiting and stretching, and more waiting, and Finan watched through the open doors of the hall as the sunlight weakened, and dusk crept into the courtyard outside. 

Finally the dusk gave way to the night, and servants began to bustle around him preparing the evening feast, building the fire, setting jugs of ale down along the length of the tables, turning or removing oatcakes from the hearth stones as they cooked, and shooing the hounds out from under their feet as they moved. No one paid any attention to Finan, and his eyes were busy scanning from under dark brows. Finan had always felt you could tell a lot about a Lord’s reputation from the atmosphere in his hall and how happy the slaves and servants were who helped push the men through each day warm and fed. These slaves were cowed, and tired, moving about their tasks with weary resign, with no eye contact, with either Finan or each other, and there was certainly no chat or laughter. These people were beaten and were doing what they needed to do until the day they found themselves in their graves. Skoll clearly ruled through fear rather than through love, and that had its limitations and its opportunities.   
The hall started to fill up with men, cold from their time on the ramparts, but fired up by their success in repelling Sigtrygrr and Uhtred’s attack earlier on that morning, looking forward to the feast ahead and excited by the news of Finan’s capture. 

They filed in, clanking with armour, shouting and jostling each other as they took their places along the benches, the more senior of the men taking prime position in the front rows near to Finan and the raised platform. Finan watched and waited, ignoring the jeers of the men closest to him, counting the numbers as they continued to come in, assessing the leaders, the youngsters, the seasoned and the untried, those that would want to prove themselves, those that would just look for a quiet corner and the chance to rest. 

The hall could accommodate nearly five hundred men, and Finan estimated that that many were already inside, with more still coming. Maybe the slaves weren’t fearful but just exhausted with the work involved in serving this many. Skoll had just under a thousand men under him, those that were allowed into the hall tonight were the most powerful, the rest would settle themselves down for the night in whatever corridor or patch of open ground they could find. 

The noise shifted downwards when Skoll entered the hall, his white bear fur clasped around broad shoulders, but most of the men were already deep in their cups by the time he took his seat on the dais, and the noise soon rose back to raucous, the atmosphere charged. 

Skoll and his senior command ate and drank well, clearly enjoying the position they found themselves in, an impregnable fortress, an easy defeat dished out to Lord Uhtred, and the capture of Uhtred’s most trusted and valued warrior. 

The ale and good spirits soon turned to the odd scrap and scuffle and Skoll, mindful of having armed and drunk Norsemen packed into a warm hall, banged his cup down hard on the table in front of him several times and stood up. 

‘Norsemen!’ He suddenly bellowed, and the warriors along the table lengths looked up. 

‘We have hooked ourselves a great turd that was dangling off our fortress walls tonight!’ He shouted, face red, cup clasped in one meaty hand. 

‘And tonight we will see whether the Irish can fight as well as the Danes!’ And that was met by a raucous cheer and the banging of cups and of sword hilts into the earthen floor. 

Finan remained unmoved, head bowed, breathing regular, but he had been mentally preparing himself for the night ahead. Since Skoll’s arrival in the hall, he had periodically shifted his position but in small degrees, so that to the casual observer he remained in the same spot, but he was freeing up different muscles, stretching and keeping warm the muscles in his legs and in his arms, and he was praying, his cross had been snatched from around his neck, but he was praying to what Uhtred referred to as the nailed God, and steeling himself. 

Skoll, still holding his cup, stepped from around the table and jumped down from the dais, sloshing ale as he did so, a pair of the hall’s wolf hounds following him as he approached Finan, sat in the middle of the floor. 

Finan didn’t stir, and Skoll, when he reached him, kicked him hard on the ankle that was chained, the chinkling of the iron loud in the sudden quiet in the hall. 

‘Irish turd!’ Skoll addressed him, ‘It’s time for you to dance for our entertainment, on your feet’ 

Finan slowly stood, hands hung loose by his sides, and looked up into Skoll’s face. The man was huge, made even bigger by the silver white bear fur across his shoulders, but all of his bones were big, his forearms were massive, his cheekbones and jaw powerful and dominant, with shrewd blue eyes shrouded by a wide forehead. His hand dwarfed the cup it held, and his other hand was hooked into a sizeable leather belt studded with silver stars. 

‘Get him a sword.’ Skoll shouted and one of his deputies came forward with a long sword, and handed it to Finan. Skoll had made no move to ensure he was back beyond the reach of Finan’s chain but had placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword as he watched Finan take the weapon and weigh it in his hand. 

‘I’ll dance for ya big man, who do ya want me to kill first?’ Finan asked quietly, keeping a watch on Skoll’s eyes. 

Skoll’s eyes left Finan’s face and scanned the rows of men sat along the benches.

‘Who wants to practice their sword skill on my pet Irishman?’ Skoll shouted, and in answer at least one hundred young men of various sizes and degrees of drunkenness stood to their feet, some were swaying.

One of those who had stood was taller than most, with decorated silver arm rings on both arms and a silver studded leather tunic. He had long blond hair braided down the sides of his head and a tattoo of a howling wolf on his forehead. He was clearly a Norseman of renown within Skoll’s horde because as each young warrior who had volunteered himself spotted this man standing, they then sat back down until he was the only man left. He moved forwards towards Skoll and Finan with a broad grin on his face, drawing his sword as he approached. 

Skoll smacked the man on his back with a hearty slap and strolled back to his chair on the platform, and the Norsemen filled the hall with cheers, shouts, jeering, the clanging of swords and seaxes, whistles and laughter.

And so Finan’s trials as a captive of the Wolf began.


	3. The Last Kingdom – Finan’s long first night at Heahburh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finan has to fend off the Norsemen as they practice their sword skills on him......all night.....

Finan moved forwards until he was at the extent of the chain’s length, and subtlety allowed his sword tip to drop to the earthen floor to mark a notch. He kept his eyes locked on his opponent’s and moved back slightly and waited. 

The din in the hall was ringing in his ears but in his own head he was calm and clear. And then suddenly the Norseman lunged, he was faster than he looked, his sword aimed for Finan’s shackled leg, but Finan parried, and the blow was wasted. The Norseman then swung a massive two-handed blow at Finan’s head, but again Finan parried with his borrowed sword, the warrior swung straight back the other way and Finan blocked again and waited. He then lunged forwards again with two large thrusts, and Finan danced back a step or two, keeping his sword lowered, muscles loose. 

‘When are ya going to begin to fight?’ Finan asked languidly as the man stood panting slightly, the smell of ale on his breath, sweat beaded on his brow. 

And the Irishman glanced down to check where the notch was in the ground and then leapt forwards with dizzying speed, sword tip flashing to sweep across the man’s face, slashing across his eyes to then skim off the side of his head, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. The warrior fell to his knees, clutching at his eyes, and Finan, at the extent of his chain, with his shackled ankle held back, lunged his sword into the man’s belly, thrusting through thick boiled leather and through muscle and guts. He’d been given a good sword. 

The air seemed to be suddenly sucked out of the hall, taking all the noise with it, and all eyes were transfixed by the scene in the middle of the hall floor, as Finan withdrew his sword from the belly of the Norseman, the man falling sideways, his arm rings gently tingling as he collapsed gasping and dying to the floor. 

And that was when Finan realised he had made a tactical mistake - within a few seconds he had made a mockery of the night’s entertainment, and of the man hosting the feast, and of his warrior, and he had propelled himself from a distraction to while away the drinking, into a skilled enemy that challenged Skoll’s reputation from within the very heart of his army and his feast hall. 

And Skoll was not sitting back and letting that go by, with a massive roar he pushed himself out of his chair, flew off the dais and ran full force towards Finan, landing a fearful blow to Finan’s cheek  
that threw him sideways, suddenly blackening his vision and splitting his skull with a ringing pain. Finan had the sense not to raise his sword as Skoll hurled towards him, to defend himself at this point was the surest way to hasten his own death and so he accepted the blow and felt the awareness fade as he fell to the floor.

‘Anyone!’ Skoll bellowed, arms outstretched and turning a full circle as he spoke, ‘Anyone who can beat this man will be given this!’ And he plucked an arm-ring from a huge bicep, the gold as thick as a woman’s plait, and glinting warmly in the flickering lights of the hall, and held it high so that all the men could see the prize on offer. It was the first sniff of gold any follower of Skoll had had thus far, and it served to sharpen everyone’s attention. 

‘And’ Skoll continued, ‘No-one else is to lose their life to this goat-turd, he’s on a chain, if you can’t beat him step out of his range. If you disgrace me and lose to a chained dog I will make sure you die without a sword in your hand and you can wander Niflheim for eternity! 

Skoll then walked towards the entrance of the hall where a dozen guards stood, armed with spears and shields and posted to keep an eye out for trouble both inside and outside the hall. He was less intent on throwing a dead Finan back over the ramparts in an hour or two and more interested now in his obvious value as a hostage. 

He spoke to the commander of the guard troop with a snarl. ‘I do not want him dead - he is of more use to us as a hostage than a corpse so we will have our sport, but keep him breathing.’ 

And he once more returned to the platform, and picked up his cup. 

That night was the longest night that Finan could remember, and he had spent hours waiting for a battle to start or for the dawn to arrive, or for a watch to end. 

With a groggy head and ringing ears, he had been kicked up onto his feet by the next man who was keen to try his hand at some Irish baiting, and he was kept from retreating by a row of spears set at his back, so that the available space he now had to fight in was no more than a half circle of chain length. 

This next man was drunk, which had robbed him of his balance but given him some false courage, and Finan was forced towards his swinging sword by the spears at his back, dodging the man’s clumsy sweeps of his weapon for what seemed like an eternity, before he thought it would be timely to drive the man back onto his arse with a flick of his blade across the throat. It was a deep slash but didn’t sever the windpipe, and his comrades dragged him back to his seat at the table where they saw to his wound. And on with the next man, keen to gain a reputation, and the next. It was only the youngsters who rose to Skoll’s challenge, those who hadn’t seen battle and had no reputation to lose. There was little reputation to gain afresh either, because in truth there was no honour and very little skill in besting a man chained to a pole in the ground who had no mail, no shield and a sword that was a stranger to him. 

But Skoll had set the game and issued the prize and the task held all the men’s attention for that evening and into the early dawn, which was exactly what Skoll had intended. Skoll himself had slumped over his table and had spent the last few hours snoring loudly. Servants picked their way through the hall, removing the platters, refilling the jugs and still Finan stood, facing each man in turn, his sober brain and sword skill easily pushing back each challenge. 

Until the warrior who had waited until the pink light of the new day was pushing itself weakly through the open doors of the hall. 

He was shorter than most of his countrymen and skinnier, and had no leather or mail, only a black cloth tunic and leather breeches. He had a narrow sly face, shoulder-length almost black hair with three thick braids running centrally from the top of his head down the back, woven with silver beads, and his sword was long and slim. He also carried a spear, on a very short shaft, no longer than the length of his arm, with a highly polished blade, which was an unusual weapon, of more use in skewering fish in a stream, but Finan thought little of it. 

Finan eyed the man as he approached in the near silence, only the murmuring and snoring of a few hundred men punctuated the air now. He had been on his feet for the whole night, but in truth had not been tested once, so he was tired, hungry and thirsty but essentially unchallenged, the passing hours more of a test of endurance than of skill. 

This latest foe bowed politely as he faced Finan, with an almost shy smile on his lips, and stepped within the narrow field of Finan’s range. Finan shook his head to clear it, kicked the chain behind him and set himself for this next attack. 

This small lithe warrior was clearly sober and unlike most of his comrades, was wide awake. He started to move slowly left than right, mirroring the semi-circle of space available to Finan, offering Finan a side on view of first his sword and then his fishing spear, and his eyes were watchful, never leaving Finan’s, his dark pupils dilated in the dawn’s half-light. Finan instinctively sensed this was the first real test of the night, and stayed up on his toes, watchful. 

And then, with no obvious muscle movement or any tell that Finan saw, the man lunged forwards with his long slender blade held low and cut a deep slice into Finan’s thigh, cutting through his breeches and drawing a thin line of blood. A chained Finan was obliged to defend rather than attack, and his normal side step away from the enemy’s sword was hampered by his tether. 

Then the small warrior jumped to the side, keeping his sword low but his spear raised high above his head, and he suddenly thrust the spear hard into the ground to Finan’s left, the blade point driving itself through a link of the chain, and disappearing into the hard ground. Finan was now held by no more than two feet of iron link, and he didn’t have time to test the strength of this new fastening because the man was upon him again, close-up, his sword slashing at Finan’s injured shackled leg. Finan parried this blow and thrust forwards but he was effectively pinned to the spot, and his lunge was little more than a shuffle before the iron bit at his ankle. He parried a dozen more swift blows as the man moved around him in complete circles, and one of his counter strokes landed on the warrior’s shoulder, as a stab rather than a slash. This was met with immediate retaliation as Finan stumbled backwards over the buried spear’s wooden shaft that stuck up at knee height, and he felt the slender blade tear into his hip, ripping upwards in a long deep line to his lower rib. 

Over the course of that first long night of captivity Finan had pushed away the drunken slashes and stabs of probably more than twenty Norsemen, all by definition in Finan’s mind cowards or bullies, but this he felt was now the beginning of the end. 

He could feel the warmth of his blood from his wound as it trickled down his torso and underneath his waistband, and the initial sting embedded itself into a searing throbbing ache across his right side. He tossed his sword into his other hand, a move that prompted a raised eye-brow from his opponent, and as soon as he felt the heft of it in his left palm he flicked his wrist to bring his fingers uppermost onto the hilt and with sudden force he sent it flying like a spear through the air. It flew, straight into the centre of the small man’s chest, and he looked down with surprise on his face before dropping to his knees, his hands pawing at the hilt. 

Finan bent and with both hands hauled on the spear shaft that was sunk into the ground, pulling it out of the chain’s link and throwing it back towards the dead man. He slumped to the ground and heard a guard approach him and kick away his sword, and more guards drag the Norseman’s corpse out of the hall. 

If Finan had just made another tactical mistake he did not care anymore. To his mind he was doing Skoll a favour in ridding his ranks of the biggest cowards or bullies he had in his army. Men who saw a challenge in baiting a tethered man weren’t warriors who Finan would want to share a shield wall with. 

He felt the ceiling above him start to swirl and dip as he succumbed to sleep, with a wry smile on his dry lips.


	4. Finan's Henbane Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skoll's magician, Snorri turns up and decides to spice things up a bit for Finan

Finan spent that second day sleeping as best he could, mostly lying with his damaged side uppermost, close to the iron pole that held him. The gash that ran along his right side had bled steadily for the first half of the day, with no cloth to bind it and stem its flow. The gash on his thigh was deep but had dried.

He had been aware of men and voices around him at several points during that day but had kept his eyes squeezed shut and no-one had bothered or helped him.

Aside from his wounds, Finan’s biggest problem was thirst. He had not drunk anything, water or ale, since the start of that ill-fated day when Uhtred attacked the North wall. His throat ached and his head throbbed, his dry mouth yearning for water. When he slept he dreamt of water, of running streams or of fat droplets of rain dripping onto his face and into his open mouth and when he lay on the floor of the hall awake, he thought only of ale, a whole barrel of it and his fist unconsciously clenched around a mug - he knew he was walking the borders between waking and unconsciousness and his thirst was the all-consuming symptom of both states.

The shadows had lengthened from dusk and were joining together to form Finan’s second night of captivity. Finan’s dream of water trickling over his outstretched fingers instead became an awareness of a dog licking them, and he opened his eyes slowly and turned his head to focus on a little white dog stood at the end of his out-flung arm, licking the dried blood off the fingers of his sword hand.

And then he became aware of a man crouched beside him in the gloom, a man as thin as a wraith, with long straggly grey hair and matching beard, the tip of which reached the ground between the man’s long bent legs. He wore a grubby white and grey striped robe and his eye sockets were empty red gashes in his skull. In one hand he held the leather plaited leash that was tied to the dog, and in the other hand he held a small pottery jar with a cork lid.

Finan’s hand instinctively moved to where his crucifix should have hung around his neck, for this was Skoll’s magician, Snorri, and he was terrifying. Finan pushed himself slowly up onto his elbows, wincing as his cuts cracked and pulled, and watched as Snorri tilted his nose upwards and sniffed, like a badger on the forest floor.

‘You are badly wounded,’ he said in a low rasping voice, ‘I can smell the blood and the rot that is setting in.’

Finan said nothing, aware of the little dog pressing against his leg and wagging its short stubby tail.

‘I have brought you something that will help you,’ Snorri said, and suddenly he lifted his head to the hall’s rafters and howled, a noise that made the dog suddenly freeze to the spot.

‘Holy Christ,’ Finan muttered hoarsely under his breath, ‘The Lord God preserve us,’ he whispered and made the sign of the cross on his bare chest.

‘I have foreseen your death Finan,’ Snorri murmured, and the use of his name sent a bolt of fear up through Finan’s spine.

‘But first you will become Fenrir, the monstrous wolf of the underworld,’ and as he spoke Snorri started to shuffle on his haunches towards Finan, touching one of his feet with an outstretched bony hand, fluttering that hand over the iron shackle and up along Finan’s leg to guide himself towards Finan’s head.

Finan was mesmerised by the dirty, skinny, pale claw of a hand that was crawling up his leg. He stared, rooted to the spot with terror, propped up on his elbows, head pounding, tongue thick with thirst, torso glistening with the slick of yet more blood coaxed from his wounds by his movement, and when he tried to push himself back away from Snorri, the sorceror’s claw tightened its grip where it had reached Finan’s lacerated hip, skinny fingers digging into the tear in his flesh, and the Irishman cried out in pain. The hand skewered him in place whilst the old man pulled level with Finan’s face.

‘You will become a wolf,’ Snorri whispered, fumbling with the lid of the clay jar he held. He scooped a large glob of the glistening paste out with his bony fingers, holding it high above his head and sniffing at it, his empty eye sockets lifted to the rafters. Suddenly he swept his fingers down, and slapped the clump of ointment onto Finan’s chest, smearing it down his stomach and across his cut.

‘What the holy shite is that?’ Finan cried, forcing himself backwards as quickly as he could along the dusty floor of the hall, the chain clanking and the little dog jumping up excitedly at this new game.

‘What the bastard hell was that?” Finan asked again, rubbing his palms into the dirt of the floor and wiping his dusty hands over his chest and stomach to try and remove the shiny smears of ointment from his skin, but Snorri didn’t answer him, he remained on his haunches, head cocked towards the noise that Finan made.

And then he licked his long greasy fingers one by one and slowly stood, pulling at the dog’s leash, and the little dog, stumpy tail wagging, obediently returned to his master’s side, and the pair of them exited the hall.

Finan slumped back exhausted, lying sprawled on his back, arms outstretched, listening to the sounds of the slaves preparing the hall for the evening, his skin stinging and tingling under the dirt and sweat, and his mind for the first time since his capture turned to Uhtred.

He hadn’t had brain space on that first night to allow thoughts of home, he had forced himself to stay in the moment and take each obstacle as it presented itself, but now, lying here, about to head into a second night of captivity and whatever that might bring, he allowed himself to ponder on what Uhtred was doing and whether he was safe.

There was no doubt in Finan’s mind that Uhtred had left the rocky crags outside Heahburh and taken his and Sigtrggr’s remaining men to safety, perhaps back down south as far as Eoferwic. It’s what he wished for with all his heart. Finan could endure as long as he knew Uhtred was safe. So Finan drew comfort from thoughts of Uhtred being away from danger, perhaps he was at one of the many inns in Eoferwic with Sihtric, mourning him and drowning their sorrows, which then took Finan’s mind back to ale, and he groaned, his thirst an all-evasive problem that kept pushing its way back into his head to be solved.

He was not sure if he slept then, or for how long, but when he next opened his eyes and turned his head to one side to look along the length of the hall, the servants were lighting and mounting the rushlights, and the hall was otherwise in total darkness. He looked towards the slaves at the far wall, but the images swam and he couldn’t focus. He blinked hard several times, but the shadows that flickered up the walls seemed to form into monstrous shapes that danced and leapt towards him, and he cried out, squeezing his eyes shut and shielding his face with his arm as they loomed and stretched higher up the building’s side and up into the rafters.

He shook his head to try and clear it, and rubbed his eyes to force them to focus but when he looked at the wall again one shape had detached itself and stood. It was solid black, the outline of its head and shoulders rising and falling with the gasping breaths it took, stretched tall, long arms protruding from hunched shoulders, long curved bony fingers scraping the ground, and suddenly it cantered towards him on all fours and Finan screamed.

He scrambled to his feet, pulling open the wound on his side and thigh, and hauled on his chain with both hands, desperate to see the old rusted iron links pop apart but when that didn’t work, he staggered to the iron pole, dropped to his knees beside it and tried to wrestle it out of the ground. He didn’t dare look up as he fought his bindings, he could hear himself sobbing and see his hands scrabbling at the iron but neither his voice nor his hands seemed to belong to him.

He stood up, staggering, and started screaming for a sword, his parched throat protesting and he began to stumble his way around the edge of his chain circle, round and round. He felt better if he was moving and if he kept his eyes fixed to the ground to avoid the shadow shapes that ran in opposing circles around him, howling and calling his name. He was trying to say a prayer but he couldn’t remember any words, so instead he kept calling for a sword so that he could fight.

He had no idea how much time passed and he felt his understanding of where he was slip away. He was vaguely aware of men seated around him at tables, but he had no knowledge that they were Skoll’s men, or that he was in a feasting hall. He felt a sword be placed in his hand and felt relief at the familiar weight of it in his palm, and he gathered up what courage and strength he had left and started swinging away at the devil’s creatures, the black shapes that were wolves one minute, ghoulish hags the next, that shifted and strained to reach him, pushing themselves down from the ceiling rafters, mouths open in snarling howls as they swooped, forever calling his name.

He felt his sword make contact as he leapt and lunged, and whirled and parried, and his battle cries, in his native language, tore out of his scratched and bleeding throat, but he had no sense of feeling anymore, he was neither tired nor thirsty, he could not feel the gashes in his flesh, or the chain cutting into his lacerated ankle, he just had to keep swinging at the devil’s demons in front of him. If they reached him, they would take him.

And then Skoll, who, late into this second night, had been watching this mad Irishman from his chair up on the raised platform, stepped down and walked towards Finan’s fighting circle. He called off the half dozen Norsemen who were jumping in and out of Finan’s range, trying to land a blow, or bring him down, and they backed away, panting and heaving, some bleeding, swords hung low to the floor.

Skoll looked at Finan. He was filthy, covered in dirt and dust, sweat and blood, and he stood wide eyed, staring back. His bare chest was heaving, he had spittle on his dusty beard and tears tracked through the dust on his cheeks. He was at the extent of the chain, his sword held low to his side, leaning towards Skoll at an almost impossible angle, the shackle biting deep into his ankle as it held him in place, and Finan was growling, a low continuous sound like a dog protecting its food.

Skoll was amused by the ointment’s effect. The hall was less populated this second night, more men were held at the ramparts, with something seemingly brewing outside the walls with Sigtrygrr and Uhtred moving their men about. Finan had provided an incredible sight, his obvious skill powered by the effects of the henbane, but Skoll needed to call time on the evening’s entertainment if his Irish hostage was to survive until the morning.

‘Last night he fought like an Irishman, tonight he fights like a Norseman!’ Skoll exclaimed to the hall’s occupants, to the sound of jeering and cup banging. He approached Finan and handed him his half - full ale cup. Finan took it with a shaking hand and gulped its contents.

‘But now we all need to get some rest, I suspect Lord Uhtred will give us cause to shed some Saxon blood in the morning, if not before,’

And with that, Skoll took back his cup, drew his sword and with the hilt, knocked the Irishman sideways. Finan fell unconscious to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henbane, especially the roots and seeds, was grounded into a paste and smeared onto the Viking Norsemen Berserkers before battle to make them fiercer. They fought in a trance like state of blind rage, biting shields and howling like wolves - Finan's had about a heaped tablespoon of the glob applied this evening!!


	5. Finan's Rescue from Heahburh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhtred and Sigtrygrr manage to infiltrate Skoll's fortress, with a little help from the inside, and Uhtred can finally reach Finan and help him.

The plan to rescue Finan was a simple one, as all the best plans are, and it was Berg who had made it possible.

He crouched beside Uhtred as his Lord sat alongside Sigtrygrr, despondent, on the grassy ridge of their makeshift camp, and relayed the news of his brothers that he had received from the little messenger rat.

‘Lord, my brothers have four crews in the fortress, they joined Skoll only a few weeks ago’

Uhtred turned to look at him.

‘They are frustrated with the Lord Skoll’s lack of silver Lord,’ Berg persisted, ‘They have done nothing since leaving Snaesland other than sit in this rocky fortress.’

‘And how sure are you of them Berg?’ Uhtred asked tiredly, ‘You have not seen or spoken with them for many years.’ He said.

‘For all of those years Lord they have been my brothers still,’ Berg said, his young hopeful face still lit with optimism in the face of Uhtred’s fatigue and dark mood. ‘And I have told them that you are a generous Lord,’ he added sheepishly.

‘Do they bring word of Finan?’ Uhtred asked softly and Berg looked down.

‘No Lord, I have not had news of Finan,’ he knew Uhtred well enough to not go on to offer reassurances he could not back up.

Uhtred wished he had Finan beside him, he was turning himself inside out with worry, his head and heart ached, he couldn’t think straight. He felt the same despair he’d felt the day he’d learned of Gisela’s death, and could not shake the knowledge that Finan had been a dead man breathing since the Norse had grabbed him.

He had no interest in eating, sleeping, defeating Skoll or taking Heahburh, he was diminished.

‘Egil and Thorolf say they have the North wall covered,’ Berg continued, glancing at Sigtrygrr for support, ‘And they will open the North gate tonight, just before dawn. They will wave the mighty Skallagrimmarson eagle banner from the gate just before,’ Berg announced excitedly.

And so Uhtred dragged his mind to the task of infiltrating Heahburh and they put their plan together.

They were obliged to launch an attack on the North wall just before the dawn, which must have looked like madness to Skoll as he stood on the far ramparts - until he saw that the North gate was opening, and he then realised that some of his own men had turned against him.

After that it was a bloody headlong dash through the narrow lanes, Sigtrygrr and Uhtred’s men screaming like fiends as they dished out revenge on the Norsemen inside. As Sigtrygrr reached the central courtyard, he started to shout for Skoll’s men to surrender, and like a rippling wave that ran out from the central courtyard and up into the alleys and streets, the enemy began to drop their swords and shields, and Uhtred and Sigtrygrr stood, panting, totally surprised by the speed at which Skoll’s vaunted army capitulated. It had outnumbered Uhtred’s force by more than three to one, but the Norsemen had never expected Uhtred’s men to pierce their defences, and the rage and carnage that followed their entry through the North gate was terrifying.

Sigtrygrr started to call for strategic shield walls to be formed to bolster the central courtyard, and to serve as a base from which he could send men out to find and herd the prisoners. He then dispatched his dozen most hardened warriors to seek out Skoll, his household troops and the magician, Snorri.

Uhtred called Berg and Sihtric to his side.

‘We go and find Finan’, Uhtred told them and the two other men nodded grimly.

They proceeded with caution, swords drawn, and shields held loose, across the stone courtyard towards the great hall’s open double doors.

The hall had been abandoned in haste, slaves and warriors having been called hurriedly to the ramparts when Uhtred had attacked, and aside from the dogs trotting excitedly backwards and forwards, there was no-one else inside. Apart from Finan.

Once through the doors Uhtred had a clear view of the Irishman lying in the middle of the hall’s beaten earth floor. He lay on his side, at the full stretch of a chain clasped at his ankle. Wary of a trap Uhtred walked slowly forwards, sword now resting forwards on the rim of his shield, Berg and Sihtric looking up towards the gallery platforms and turning full circles behind Uhtred to protect their rear. Uhtred peered hard at Finan as he approached, desperate to see any movement or indication he was still alive, but he couldn’t tell in the weak dawn’s light.

Uhtred glanced back at Sihtric’s pale drawn face and knew he looked as worried himself, and then they reached Finan and Uhtred placed his shield and sword down and crouched at the Irishman’s side. Sihtric remained standing ready for any trouble, whilst Berg began to explore the shadowy corners. Uhtred reached out his hand and touched Finan’s bruised cut cheek very gently, and was relieved to feel it was at least warm.

Uhtred looked Finan up and down, taking in his injuries and allowing them to paint a picture of what Finan had endured. The injury that caused Uhtred’s stomach to lurch was the groove worn bloody by the shackle at Finan’s ankle. It was dishonourable, amongst Danes and Norsemen, and Christians.

Meanwhile Berg had made a lucky guess and found the shackle’s key hung on the post near to the door, where the guards had stowed their spears and mail, and Uhtred released Finan’s bloody ankle from the iron.

He gently pushed Finan onto his back and he stirred and groaned quietly, but did not open his eyes.

Uhtred pushed Finan’s dark hair off his forehead, and took one of his hands in both of his own, kneeling close to Finan’s ear.

‘Finan’ he whispered, ‘Can you hear me?’

Finan opened his eyes and looked up at Uhtred’s face, his eyes were wholly dark and a sob escaped his dry lips. Uhtred hands tightened their grip on Finan’s hand but the pressure was not returned and Finan’s eyes left Uhtred’s face and looked beyond him to the far reaches of the hall, scanning, searching.

Sihtric had gone to the nearest table and brought back a half empty jug of ale and a cup, he filled it now and passed it to Uhtred, who slipped his hand under Finan’s neck and placed the cup at the Irishman’s lips. Finan took a few sips before he turned his head and looked to pull away, his eyes again slipping past Uhtred’s shoulder to search the dark recesses of the hall beyond.

‘Finan’ Uhtred said, but Finan was now trying to move away, using his elbows and heels to try and back away along the floor.

Uhtred put the cup down and tried to duck into Finan’s line of vision. ‘Finan,’ he said softly again, and made to place his hands on Finan’s arms to still him, but Finan suddenly shouted,

‘Get off a me ya devil’s turd,’ his voice cracked and hoarse. Uhtred stilled his hands in mid-air. Finan made to grab his crucifix but instead his hand clawed at his bare neck, and he shuffled back on his elbows a few more feet to make more space between himself and Uhtred.

‘Give me a sword’ Finan snarled, ‘And fight me fair ya bastard shites, I can see ya, I know who you are.’

Uhtred stayed where he was, crouched on his haunches.

‘Finan’ he spoke softly, ‘It’s me, Uhtred, can you see me?’ but Finan, propped up on his elbows was looking away from Uhtred, to his side, across the length of the hall towards the shadowy walls. His chest was heaving with sobs as he blinked hard to clear his vision of tears.

‘I can’t remember any prayers’ he sobbed, ‘Why can’t I remember me prayers, they already have me,’ and he shook his head hard seemingly to try and clear it. ‘They already have me,’ he cried softly and with that he flopped onto his back, thudding his head back hard onto the impacted ground.

Uhtred stood slowly. ‘I can’t reach him,’ he said quietly, he was crying, tears running freely down his cheeks, and he turned and looked across to Sihtric, despair cast across his face, ‘Why doesn’t he see me, why doesn’t he know who I am?’

Sithric’s own eyes welled as he struggled to find words.

‘Perhaps we should take him to a church Lord?’ he suggested, ‘Or get him to Hild, she would know what to do’

‘Lord’ Berg interjected. He moved alongside Uhtred and pointed to Finan’s chest to where the greasy slick of henbane still shone, making its mix of blood, sweat and dirt glisten in a strip that still clung to the Irishman’s skin, ‘They gave him the wolf’s ointment, he will not be himself for a day or so, but the effects will pass.’

Uhtred’s anger flared, but he sought solace in action.

‘Berg, go and see whether there are any healers amongst Skoll’s women and bring them here, Sihtric, we need water, cloth and honey, and we need to get him off this floor and into a bed,’


	6. Finan's Recovery at Heaburh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finan's wounds are treated and he's put to bed, Sihtric looks after him but he's not all there....

Finan lay on his side, eyes squeezed shut, aware of men moving around him, a familiar voice close by, he felt someone sit down at the head of the bed he was on, and he tensed but he had no strength to move, let alone fight, he was done. And then he felt a hand slip under his neck and lift his head onto a lap, he felt fingers rake through his dusty hair and he felt firm fingers follow the strip of shaved hair that ran above his ears, gently circling around new cuts, applying pressure as they moved to the back of his neck and then round to his temple to start the move again. Finan got lost to that circling sensation, his mind brought back from its cliff edge and able to focus on the gentle pressure, anticipating the path the warm fingers would take, and his eyes and furrowed forehead relaxed, his breathing slowed and became deeper.

Uhtred leaned back against the wall that the bed was pushed up against, legs outstretched, Finan’s head on his lap. His fingers absentmindedly traced the track of shaved hair on the side of Finan’s head, sometimes straying into the longer hair on top, snagging in crusted blood and dirt that clung to the dark lengths. With the cold Roman stone of the wall against his back Uhtred shivered involuntarily, with his whole body, shaking Finan’s head on his legs and causing him to groan. He pulled the furs higher up over Finan’s shoulders and resumed his carding of Finan’s hair with his fingers.

The exhaustion sat on Uhtred’s shoulders like a sodden blanket, there had been no relief or salvation in finding Finan, one worry had been immediately replaced by another, they had found him physically, and they could try to mend his body, but his spirit had gone from them and Uhtred was at a lost as to what to do.

Uhtred had spent all of that first day keeping busy. In taking Heahburh they had gained the time Finan needed to recover. The prisoners were given the choice of swearing new oaths to Egil and Thorolf or being stripped of their mail and locked up in the stables, and very few struggled with that choice. Skoll and Snorri and a few of Skoll’s household guards were imprisoned, and Uhtred and Sigtrygrr knew they would need to deal with those problems before they could leave the fortress.

But for now they buried their dead, arranged the paddocking of pasture land for their horses, assessed the fortress’s level of supplies and garrisoned the men. They sent out scouts and foraging parties and prepared to hole up at Heahburh for the next few weeks.

The healer recruited from Skoll’s womenfolk had supervised Finan’s care. Sihric, Berg and Uhtred had manhandled a weak but thrashing Finan into one of the old Roman buildings that stood on one side of the courtyard, where beds and cooking fires had been discovered.

The healer and a few other women had washed Finan’s body, wiping the henbane clear of his skin. The women had cleaned and dressed his wounds, applying a herb paste to the injuries on his side, thigh and ankle to try and draw out the infection, binding them tightly with honey soaked cloth.

On that first morning after his recovery he was feverish and hot and restless, mumbling and shifting, groaning and cursing as sweat pooled on his forehead and trickled down the sides of his face. Finan wouldn’t open his eyes, keeping them resolutely squeezed shut, and it was Sihtric that took on the role of nurse in those first few hours after the Irishman’s rescue. He sat on the bed alongside him and wiped his brow with a cloth that he dipped in cool water from a bucket. He frequently held a cup to Finan’s lips to coax him to drink, talking to him sternly in Danish when he tried to wriggle free. The ever resourceful Berg had discovered Finan’s swords, mail shirt and boots in a discarded pile in the hall, and the crucifix on a chain had been on the dusty floor underneath this kit, so Sihtric had been able to return Finan’s cross to his neck.

As night fell on that first day that Heahburh belonged to them, Uhtred had entered the room to find Sihtric and Berg sat around the cooking fire, with a pot of stew bubbling over the heat.

Finan’s fever had seemingly blown over because he lay still on his side, and that’s when Uhtred had moved to sit on his bed and coax his head onto his lap.

‘Has he woken up at all?’ Uhtred asked of the two men at the fire as he gingerly moved so that his back could rest against the wall.

Sihtric turned away from his stirring to look back at Uhtred and shook his head.

‘No Lord,’ he answered. ‘Bishop Iremias came in to say a few prayers earlier, and he seemed to be listening, but he hasn’t answered me all day.’ Sihtric said morosely. ‘That’s as calm as I’ve seen him though,’ Sihtric added, watching Uhtred’s hand move across Finan’s head.

‘If it’s his soul we need to find Sihtric,’ Uhtred said, ‘Then the last Christian we need searching for it is Bishop Iremias, he’s as mad as a cow with the staggers.’

Sihtric smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps if the Bishop was to bring his two angels along, that would bring Finan back to us.’ Bishop Iremias, in his madness had chosen to bring two girls to the battle field at Heapburh, one of whom had proved surprisingly useful in binding Uhtred’s head wound all those days ago. Iremias called them his angels but in truth they were no more than a pair of teenage orphans. Pretty though, maybe there was some merit in Sihtric’s suggestion.

‘He sees Fenrir behind his eyes,’ Berg stated, looking at Sihtric sat beside him, who nodded in agreement. ‘The battle ointment gives a warrior the strength of five, but it opens a door to Nilfheim, and Fenrir and Hel will come through it.’

‘I will have to talk to Iremias in the morning then,’ Uhtred said, ‘As a Dane and now a Christian Bishop he may well be able to help, even if he is moon-struck. I’d rather have Hild or Beocca here, Finan thinks Iremias is an idiot too, but perhaps the man will know what to do.’

Sihtric stood up from the fire and carefully handed Uhtred a bowl of the stew. Uhtred was obliged to stop combing through Finan’s hair whilst he used both hands to take it, holding it high. Finan stirred slightly at the interruption, and Uhtred waited until he had stilled. Uhtred was grateful for the first hot meal he had had all day as he held the bowl close to his lips and ate.

That night, once they had all eaten and the fire had been fed with fat logs, Uhtred’s men settled down to sleep. The wind had picked up as darkness had fallen and Sihtric barred the doors of the long Roman building to shut it out. They all had beds which was certainly a luxury and all had thick furs for warmth so this would be the first comfortable night any of them had had since they had arrived at the fortress.

Uhtred’s bones ached and his head was sore, but he sank gratefully onto his bed and pulled his furs around him. His worry for Finan sat like a stone in his stomach and he lay with one arm across his forehead, eyes staring up at the Roman built rafters above his head, thoughts whirling.

With still a few hours to go before the dawn Uhtred was roused from his sleep by a noise emanating from the corner and when he propped himself up to look he could see Finan was sat up in his bed, feet swung down onto the floor, his head held in his hands and he was muttering quietly under his breath.

Uhtred climbed out of his own bed and padded barefoot across to Finan, crouching down in front of him and placing his hands on each of Finan’s knees. The fire still pushed out a gentle heat and light and Uhtred ducked his head to put himself in Finan’s line of sight as he stared down at the floor. Uhtred could see, by the light of the flames, Finan’s eyes focus on his face, but Finan didn’t move.

‘Finan’, Uhtred whispered, looking up into his eyes, ‘You are safe, we are all here with you,’ he paused a beat, ‘Do you hear me Finan?’ he asked.

Finan nodded slowly, his eyes on Uhtred’s, and he pressed the heels of his hands into his temples. His whole body was shaking, and Uhtred couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion, or fear, or both. It seemed to Uhtred that they were a long way from Finan being back with them. It felt like another lifetime ago from which Uhtred could pluck scenes of the Irishman, eyes creased with amusement, lips twitching at some unspoken jest hovering just below the surface, just happy, happy when fighting, happy when drinking ale, happy when at his rightful place alongside Uhtred.

Uhtred slowly stood, and gently pushed Finan back down onto his side in the bed. From the foot of the bed Uhtred climbed up and settled alongside him, against the wall, rearranging the furs to cover them both. Uhtred placed his arm carefully on Finan’s shoulder, and began to whisper to him in the darkness.

Uhtred muttered nonsense about the jobs that would need doing when they returned to Bebbanburg, the plans he had for the strengthening of this wall or that, the tall grey stallion he intended to breed from, the work that Finan would need to do with Rorik, who was getting as fat as butter, to get him to any useful level as a warrior. Uhtred spoke of the noises and the smells at their coastal home, and gradually, as the words about home circled around Finan’s head and the warmth of their two bodies mingled under the furs, Finan began to relax. The shivering gave way to deeper breaths and Finan rolled onto his back, wincing as he did so. Uhtred, facing him in the darkness kept his grounding grip on the Irishman’s shoulder. Before both men had drifted into sleep Finan spoke,

‘I might be good at fighting Uhtred, but there’s no way I can make Rorik inta a warrior. We might aswell put a dress on him and set him to work in the dairy.’

Uthred squeezed Finan’s shoulder and smiled and they then gave in to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure whether this is the end of this story, might post another chapter, but liked the idea of Finan's trauma coming to an end whilst lying in bed listening to Uhtred whitter on.......aaaggh. 
> 
> Let me know what you think.....


End file.
